


fire in exile

by astraeus (sirensq)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, just had a lot of feelings about the finale, mainly i wanted to write from jon's perspective, wanted to fix it a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24565942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirensq/pseuds/astraeus
Summary: The thoughts of the others he’d lost were too unpleasant, and the thoughts of those who survived made him want to keel over like a babe, knowing he’d left them behind. It wasn’t really a choice, but it didn’t stop him from pondering his choices. From King in the North to bending the knee to Daenerys to stabbing her with a dagger beneath white ash borne from burning flesh, he’s never made the correct choice, and now he’ll burn in hell for it.Or, as Westeros deems hell: he’ll freeze his balls off at the wall, or Tormund will cut them off. Whichever comes first.-a quick study of jon and the choices he makes in exile.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 84





	fire in exile

Jon sits and ponders. Furs weigh thick and heavy on his back, as if he hadn’t already carried the weight of the realm atop them. His curls, iced and broke in the crisp cold, are a mangy bunch on his head, and he runs a hand through the icicles, feeling droplets form from the warmth of his hand as he brings a leather cord up with the other. He puffs out a breath of white air, yanks his hair back, and ties it up.

He’s got too much free time for free thinking beyond the wall. When he thinks, it’s always about family. Ned Stark, his beloved father or uncle, beheaded by a cruel king. His uncle Benjen comes next, the other man in his family who was dead but not dead, who had sacrificed himself for Jon’s safety. And what had Jon done with his safety? Ended a war, started a war, killed his aunt and lover, abandoned his family.

He thinks of his siblings — or his cousins. The ones he lost, always first: Robb and Rickon, Rickon and Robb, the names echo through his head. Sometimes he feels like he’s losing it out here in the cold, when those names ricochet through his head until a piercing pain erupts, much like an arrow strung across the battlefield as a little Stark boy runs and runs and —

The ones who survive, in order: Arya, Bran, and Sansa. Arya, his kindred spirit; Bran, who is no longer even Bran; and Sansa, who is — who is— Queen of the North.

He stops here. The thoughts of the others he’d lost were too unpleasant, and the thoughts of those who survived made him want to keel over like a babe, knowing he’d left them behind. It wasn’t really a choice, but it didn’t stop him from pondering his choices. From King in the North to bending the knee to Daenerys to stabbing her with a dagger beneath white ash borne from burning flesh, he’s never made the correct choice, and now he’ll burn in hell for it.

Or, as Westeros deems hell: he’ll freeze his balls off at the wall, or Tormund will cut them off. Whichever comes first.

—

In this landscape of ice and white, he longs for warm colors. All he can think of is autumn in Winterfell, red leaves that cascaded down, and the joy it brought him to kick and step on a dried leaf. The sound, the feeling of the muted crunch, is everything compared to the clunky sounds his boots make as they compress the white snow beneath him.

He longs. Meals around a fire don’t help him, do nothing but attempt to fill his emptiness with food. He’s drawn to the flames in a way he cannot explain, in a way beyond warmth, and for a moment he thinks of the fire god kooks who weren’t really kooks. Quickly, however, his mind is drawn away, and his fingers edge closer to the flame until the dancing tips gently burn him. He can’t help but recall the phrase “kissed by fire,” and each time he chews harder, thinks of a woman he loved who defied him, who supported him, who he betrayed, and — and sometimes, it isn’t the same woman. Burned, he retracts his hand and closes his fist, knuckles white like the landscape outside his tent, like the flesh of thousands, like long hair across a pillow.

Sometimes Tormund’s hair makes his stomach knot, even though something in him says, “It’s not the right shade,” and he shivers as he pushes the thought away.

—

Tormund asks him one day why he broods if he cannot change the outcome, and he doesn’t have a good answer. Tormund gives him a pitying look before opening his arms. Jon realizes a second too late what Tormund is offering — a hug — just as Tormund huffs and steps back, arms dropping.

He thinks of goodbyes and last hugs and all of the hugs and affection that never were.

He tackles Tormund, arms tight and eyes bright with tears. Tormund does not comment, and Jon learns the man who fucks bears gives bone-crushing bear hugs.

—

As the winter wanes, he returns to Castle Black more and more. The recruits come in droves now that Bran heads the six kingdoms and Sansa heads the North. They are not timid with whom they send, and he expects nothing less. The men are unseasoned or cruel or angry or purposeless, and Jon finds he fits in much better with the men who took the black now than the first time around. Even murderers and rapists don’t draw his ire, as he thinks of burning flesh and the cruel men he couldn’t stop in King’s Landing.

The men tell stories of the kingdoms, and he clings to stories of the North, of Winterfell and its Queen. The North is powerful, they tell him, headed by a skilled queen who can deal in both the people and the politics of the realm. She hasn’t taken a husband despite a long list of suitors, although they whisper that she is betrothed to the Lord of the Vale. Her handmaidens apparently speak of the men she entertains, dark-haired and curly with brown eyes. She has a type, they whisper, and that type is Robin Arryn, her cousin.

The fists he didn’t realize were clenched uncurl.

—

Women start to arrive at the castle. Sansa’s doing, he learns. They’ve committed heinous crimes too, and he’s left with the responsibility of training them as well.

He writes her, asking after the state of affairs in the North and for more supplies. The response arrives weeks later, in the form of a wagon filled with necessities, a new batch of recruits, and one scroll that says: “I miss you.”

He furls and unfurls that scroll until it crumbles in his hands, and then he touches the fire to burn its remnants.

—

Leading this ragtag group was something he did in another life. It wasn’t him anymore. Although he’s wary, thinks of the boy he hung, he trains a successor for nearly a year: Amice, one of the first women take the black, and he doesn’t make her his stewardess. She likes him a little too much, though, and she tries to enter his bedchambers before he reminds her of their vows. She laughs, asks if anyone actually followed that one when his men and women interact with the very-free free folk and live together, when a couple babes were born this month alone, when families have started sprouting on the edges and children began to roam the courtyard. When Castle Black went from a refuge for bastards and exiles and became...a refuge for bastards and exiles.

He steps down the next week, gives the chambers his successor liked so much to her, and he settles into a small room under the protective glow of candlelight. He ponders family, wonders about love and sex and kids. When it comes time to sleep, he pinches the candle wick, extinguishing the flame.

—

The raven comes years after his exile. The Queen in the North would like to visit.

He reads the scroll in front of burning wood, finds Sam’s writing in the lettering. It’s clearly official, although Sam’s tiny addendum is barely visible. He says her visit will bring good news, and Jon sits up in bed deciding what this might mean when the candle flickers, and he stares at the dripping white wax until he falls asleep, lulled by the red glow of his room.

—

When she arrives, it is without glamour. Upon horseback, like she came years earlier, she removes her hood to address the assembled citizens of Castle Black. Her blue eyes roam the area, as if searching. He remains hidden behind a wooden post, breathing hard and quick at the sight. Finally, her eyes reach his fur, slowly climbing up his body until their eyes meet. He sees nothing there but cool collectedness. She holds his gaze for a few moments before she addresses the crowd congregating around her.

Jon drinks her in. New lines have sprouted on her face. Hairs escape her braid, and he imagines smoothing them back into place, getting close enough to touch her. Her cloak slips during her address, and his hand lifts from his side as if it were meant to adjust her. Her horse’s heaving sides split her thighs slightly with every breath. He is stricken with the sudden urge to stand before her, and his feet carry him before he is able to stop.

Luckily, she is almost done and she finishes when he stands before her. As the crowd dissipates, likely to finish preparing the feast the Lady Commander has ordered for the Queen’s visit, she dismounts from her horse. She smiles beatifically and complains of thigh pain, probably from a lack of riding, and Jon has to stop himself from glancing downward. He says nothing. They stare for a few moments until Sansa’s back straightens, smile disappearing, when Jon opens his arms and gestures her in. Her embrace rivals Tormund’s. They hug and sway like leaves in the wind.

—

“I want you to come home, Jon,” she says that night at the feast, while he’s four drinks in and struggling to contain the emotions he hasn’t felt in years. He is surrounded by people, by bastards and exiles, by people just like him, and yet he immediately knows home is Winterfell and Sansa. Even the strongest of ales cannot strip him of that.

He hums, taking in her scarlet cheeks that are blushed by the wine she nurses. He reaches out and grazes red skin, feeling the warmth emanating from her being, and then tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He has never been this bold, but by the gods, he has never felt so awed in his life. Her teeth catch her lips, and he stares and stares until she taps his cheek and excuses herself from the feast, murmuring her goodnight.

He stumbles after her an hour later once his mind has cleared. When her door opens, he is blessed with the sight of her nightgown. She says she has been waiting for him, and he kisses her red lips and her red hair and her red cheeks and feels the flame in his belly flare. She encircles him with her arms, and he thinks of bear hugs and lost affection until he is lost in her flame.

—

As they lay, she touches the tips of his fingers, feeling the raised skin there, the angry red that mars the pads of his fingers. She asks what it’s from, tickling his fingertips like dancing flames, and he feels nothing but warmth without the ensuing pain.

“I’ve been kissed by the fire,” he says, and grins.

**Author's Note:**

> haven't written a fanfic since i was 16, but had some messy emotions i wanted to get out. hmu at princemills/charmills on tumblr.


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